Sending the Wrong Message

Formerly the artistic bent of bikers and sailers, tattoos have become as mainstream as apple pie and Starbucks enemas. Your best friend has one. Your sister’s boyfriend has several. And your godmother just got her tramp stamp touched up for the holidays. But unfortunately quality has yet to trump quantity, and for all the proliferation of permanently-inked flesh canvases running around, there’s some humdingers that perhaps should have never made the leap from drunk-addled, momentarily-inspired mind to your right shoulder.

As my astute, thoughtfully-tatted friend pointed out the other day, “Remember those tribal arm tattoos all those white frat boys were getting in the mid-nineties? You know, when Creed had a hit song? Don’t you think they wake up now and go, man, why didn’t I just get a Shamrock?” And after seeing one too many of them above my head as I’m being fucked through the floorboards, I tend to agree with him.

I was contacted the other day by someone on POF (Plenty of Felons) who was proudly sporting an intricate tattoo on his forearm. “Huh, not bad,” I thought idly. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a clown. Wait, it gets worse. It was a woman clown, with big Aqua Net hair and the unfortunate makeup of the ever-popular “hobo clown.” I’m very doubtful an actual female posed for this horrific travesty of body portraiture, but I’d personally like to start a therapy fund for the poor tattoo artist who had to undertake this venture.

Got a inked horror story to share? Here’s some inspiration to get the creative juices flowing. And remember: when under the influence, avoid all sharpies and tattoo parlors.